A Most Devoted Shield and Spear
by koneko zero
Summary: "The anticipation of use, of the joy of fulfilling her purpose to protect him, fills her from steel ferrule to Malacca handle." An exploration of the love one umbrella holds for Mycroft Holmes.


**Title:** A Most Devoted Shield and Spear

**Characters & Pairing:** Umbrella (Winifred) x Mycroft, mentions of Sherlock and John**  
>Genre:<strong> Romance, Angst, Crack**  
>Spoilers:<strong> None, unless you've never watched an episode featuring Mycroft**  
>Warnings:<strong> None**  
>Status:<strong> Complete

**Summary:** "The anticipation of use, of the joy of fulfilling her purpose to protect him, fills her from steel ferrule to Malacca handle." An exploration of the love one umbrella holds for Mycroft Holmes.

**A.N.:** This is mostly just a little silliness, but I'm dedicating it to the lovely **velveteenkitten**, who has had some absolutely brilliant news. Congratulations, darling! This turned out rather more bittersweet than I intended, but I hope you enjoy it.

A huge thank you must go to the endlessly kind **patchsassy**, who has been so generous as to lend me her expertise and beta this for me even though she's only just getting back into the swing of things after her break.

ooo

**A MOST DEVOTED SHIELD AND SPEAR**

ooo

**She is not** so foolish as to believe herself to be his first. It is all too obvious in the way he handles her, in the confidence inherent in his grip and the smoothness of his swings as he twirls her through the air, that Mister Holmes has been the proud owner of many an umbrella. Nor is she so arrogant as to dream that she could be his last – that she could prove herself irreplaceable when all those others have not. Winifred is his _present_ companion though, his only shield against the changeable British weather _right now_, and every time his hand reaches for her so naturally and instinctively her metaphysical heart flutters just a little more.

His brother calls him 'Mycroft,' but to Winifred he is always 'Mister Holmes.' She is his subordinate, even if their relationship is perhaps a little more informal than most he chooses to cultivate, and it is only polite. Admittedly, there are moments when she forgets herself, when she is able to hear the rain drumming on the roof of the car or she can see the drops burst against a windowpane. The anticipation of use, of the joy of fulfilling her purpose to protect him, fills her from steel ferrule to Malacca handle and, in her excitement, she cannot help the whispered, smitten thought of his given name. Then she can do nothing but hope that no one notices the way she trembles, the delicate vibrations rippling along her stretchers and ribs. It is unprofessional, and Winifred laments herself for it every time; she is a representative of Mister Holmes, and the very suggestion of being an embarrassment to that high station is the fabric of her nightmares.

She refuses to take her position for granted, conscious of how very privileged she is to be beside him. And she is beside him a great deal – Mister Holmes has yet to forget her even once, and she has been in his service for almost three years. Three years… Oh, it could be thirty, the way that he has become such a vital part of her being. She is aware that she has not been at his side since her beginnings, that she did not simply pop into reality, fully-formed, at her master's side. Even if she disregards the tiny trademark on her third stretcher, the memory of craftsmen's hands fitting her together piece-by-piece is there, tucked away behind her stopper pin. It does not change the fact that she cannot imagine being held in another's grasp.

It is quite shameful, actually. Winifred is an umbrella, a shield for any and all against the madness of the elements, and for her to feel such a consuming attachment to one man is certainly not a disgrace she should savour.

Savour it she does, though. Every last second. The heart Mister Holmes has unintentionally and unknowingly coaxed into being is one she would never have believed she could hold within her steel and polyester frame, and she is very proud of it. Not that she is unaware that it will someday break with her ribs, but the inevitable melancholy of her end is a burden Winifred will gladly bear.

It is not as though she will be lacking any precious memories to show for it. Mister Holmes keeps her at his side even during his most private ritual. He demands solitude for the half-hour each day when he takes an afternoon pot of tea, but Winifred is never sent from the room on another's arm. No, Mister Holmes keeps her at his side, propped carefully against his desk. The small indulgence of his tea (and, some weeks, slice of cake) has come to be probably her favourite time of day; the subtle vapour of the hot liquid condensing just a little on her handle as she listens to Mister Holmes hum his satisfaction and enjoyment is something she covets. A small corner of Winifred's heart wishes that the wood of her handle could have been left unvarnished so that the few drops of tea would remain a part of her, until the voice of reason reminds her of the discolouration and cracks which would form and she pushes the notion firmly aside. It is a small vanity, but Mister Holmes always looks so dashing, so impeccable in his suits – Winifred is glad of her smart appearance, and would not change it for all the world when it allows her to fit so neatly at his side.

She overhears Doctor Watson speculating on whether her master keeps a blade tucked down her fit-up one afternoon, and wishes she had a voice to laugh with. The very idea! Mister Holmes is not a cliché storybook villain, and the vision of him drawing a thin blade from her with the sort of flourish the doctor mimes is hilarious. This is the twenty-first century – weapons need to be far more subtle in these years, and Mister Holmes is more than proficient in that particular art. The spring-loaded blade hidden in Winifred's ferrule is still perhaps a little obvious to those who are accustomed to such deceptions, but those individuals are few and far between. Doctor Watson's theory explains a little of his nervousness around her though, and his remarks result in the two Holmes brothers laughing together, genuinely and companionably, for the first time Winifred can recall; she cannot possibly think ill of the former soldier when the result of his foolishness is the broad, content smile on Mister Holmes' face as she accompanies him back to the office.

Anyway, Winifred is sure the Good Doctor is not the only one to entertain such theories. She is aware of the cautious glances she receives during each of Mister Holmes' more clandestine meetings; it is not as though he has never used her to threaten someone. He may have yet to press for the blade's release, but Winifred's ribs do continue to ache where they have made violent contact with the arm or torso of an aggressor.

Not that she minds the trivial pains. She exists to protect Mister Holmes, and if she can do so from more than the inconveniences of the British weather then she is glad. It thrills her when she is unfolded and swept elegantly above his head – she adores the knowledge that she is of importance to him and can serve her purpose in those moments. However, the realization that she is capable of more, can exceed her creators' expectations of her as an umbrella, is something she treasures. Particularly when it is this man who has, time and again, demonstrated her potential.

It cannot last forever. She is, at the end of it all, fragile. Polyester, brushed steel and Malacca wood. An umbrella. She will break; whether it will be as a result of too strong a wind for her to endure, an unfortunate accident, or an attempt to defend Mister Holmes from a hostile foe she naturally cannot say, but that she _will_ break is irrefutable. Another umbrella will replace her and Mister Holmes will probably not even remember Winifred after a few months. She will be tossed aside, forgotten, and this heart (this _love_) that has been so warm and that she has cherished so faithfully will ache until it slowly rusts with disuse.

Winifred has never expected anything less. She is here with Mister Holmes by virtue of the loss of another umbrella, and another umbrella will surely benefit from her own eventual downfall. She holds no special place in his heart regardless of the fact that he is the entirety of hers; but then, she really doesn't need to. Winifred is at his side for the moment, is the one he leans on and takes shelter from the cold English rain beneath. She is privy to his moments of quiet pleasure and her achievements, mundane and otherwise, are of some small importance. Winifred herself, with her fluttering little heart, may mean almost nothing to him, but the purposes she serves do. She makes Mister Holmes _happy_, whether or not he really registers that it is Winifred who has done so. That is enough.

When she is tangled atop a rubbish heap, prevent torn, ribs broken and precious Malacca handle cracked and splintered, it will still be enough.

ooo

Thank you so much for reading – I really hope you enjoyed this little foray into lunacy. If you have the time to let me know what you think, I'd really appreciate it. No flames please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing.


End file.
